


Ablaze

by Nahara



Category: BBC Merlin
Genre: Angst, Arthur has man-feelings, F/M, Introspection, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahara/pseuds/Nahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is confused: by Merlin, by Gwaine, by his own feelings. He's lost and he's on fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ablaze

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a coda for S3, December 2010.

Arthur would be a fool not to see. It’s obvious, so much so you could reach out, could touch, hold it in your hands.

So, he _is_ a fool, Arthur concedes, stomach seizing in shock, when Gwaine turns and says in uncharacteristic seriousness, “I didn’t do it for you.”

“What?”

Gwaine shakes the hair out of his face, eyes cutting to the floor for a moment before they travel back to look him in the eyes. He says it again, that he didn’t do any of it for Arthur. _Merlin._ It was for Merlin; his _friend_. Gwaine doesn’t shift or drop his shoulders or shrug, he’s comfortable announcing this, letting Arthur know that as much as a he respects him, as much as he’s proud to be a knight at his Round Table, he’s Merlin’s man through and through.

Something in the set of his jaw and the way he says ‘through and through’, makes Arthur stumble as he asks, “Does Merlin…?”

“Yes.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so shrugs, shifts, uncomfortable, and finally moves away.

 

 

 

Merlin does know. Anyone can see it in the ease of his smile, guileless and indisputably Merlin. Not that Arthur thought Gwaine would lie about this, but he needed to see for himself.

He wishes he hadn’t.

 

 

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Merlin asks, exasperated. His hands are on his hips, one still fisted in a clean tunic of Arthur’s, trailing, forgotten, as he narrows a look across the room.

“Nothing, Merlin,” he replies, unconvincing even to his own ears.

“You’ve been acting weird,” Merlin says, then smirks. “More than usual, that is.”

Arthur gives him a scowl that feels like old times, he says something about ears and being too big for certain people’s heads and Merlin rolls his eyes, un-offended and easy. He remembers the shirt and hands it over, a small smile on his lips. He makes another joke about equality and Arthur makes another rebuff. It’s all solid and familiar, but Arthur can feel the difference, the way you know about an unbalanced blade. The way it feels wrong in your hands and you can’t wait to put it down, forget it, move on to the next.

 

 

 

Gwen’s fingers are warm. Arthur holds them tighter in his, drops several heated kisses to her knuckles. She gasps quietly in surprise.

“Arthur? What’s wrong?” Gwen is intuitive about people, she gets them, gets them like Arthur’s never seen anyone do before. Of course she knows something’s off.

“I just – nothing. All is well.” Arthur whispers against her brow, lips brushing her forehead in tiny almost-kisses. He can feel her frown.

“No.”

“Fine,” Arthur concedes. “No.” It hurts to let it out, to admit that all is no longer upright but turned on its axis. He doesn’t know where the sky is or how to find the ground for his feet.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She’s nodding, understands, but Arthur doesn’t want her to understand when he doesn’t himself, so he dips down, kisses her fiercely, harder and more desperate than he’s ever tried with her before. Gwen’s hands come up, warm, bracket his neck and jaw gently. She’s unhurried and tries to slow him down, tries to set a new pace but Arthur doesn’t want this slow sweetness. He breaks away, breathing heavily.

“Talk to me?” she pleads.

But he can’t, so he walks away.

 

 

 

Lancelot is a hard man to find. He’s solitary and aloof. Arthur asks Percival but the knight shrugs his massive shoulders carelessly, tells Arthur he hasn’t seen him all day. Did he try the stables? Of course Arthur did and says so, but Percival only shrugs again, disinterested. Arthur wants to throw a punch at Percival but decides against it, thinking it might be more like punching a wall and about as painful and embarrassing.

It isn’t Arthur that finds Lancelot; it’s the other way around.

“You were looking for me, sire?” he says, suddenly beside him in the dark. Arthur is quiet as he surveys the blinking lights of Camelot, people using up valuable wax and wick for some special occasion, or perhaps just to see the face of the person they love for one moment longer before they extinguish the flame.

“What do you think of Merlin?” he asks. The question is a surprise to him but not, seemingly, to Lancelot who nods his head slightly, considering.

“He is a good man, brave. I would gladly have him at my side in any battle.”

Arthur grunts, turns to look fully at Lancelot. “Merlin isn’t a fighter,” he says with conviction. Surely he knows Merlin enough to be sure of that, but the look Lancelot gives him says otherwise. He growls for Lancelot to explain.

“It is not my place to say, sire,” Lancelot’s honest deference grates on Arthur. “But if you wish... I think perhaps you underestimate his strength. And his belief in you. Sire, when you mock him –“

“It’s in jest!” Arthur cuts in angrily.

“I know, sire. So does he, mostly. But I believe that one day, you will know him for all that he is and you will also be proud to have him stand beside you.”

Arthur wants to ask what Merlin could possibly have shared with this man that he could not with Arthur, but that feels too close to the bone and Arthur says instead, “He won’t talk to me…”  He hesitates, waiting and hopeful.

“Forgive me, sire.” Lancelot looks away.

Arthur feels the anger flair up, wants to say something nasty and ask Lancelot what he thinks of _Gwen_ , watch Lancelot try not to lie about his feelings, watch him be unsure for once and trip over his words. But the smallness, the spitefulness, of such a comment suddenly hits Arthur in his gut and he’s ashamed.

“Nothing to forgive,” he whispers.

 

 

 

“You should go see your father,” Merlin says unexpectedly. He’s sitting at the table in Arthur’s room, darning some of Arthur’s socks, patching up for winter. The air has turned chilly and the castle flagstones are bitter cold.

“Is something wrong? Did he call for me? Is he-“

“Slow down! No, everything is fine.” Merlin grimaces. “I mean _normal_. I just… maybe if you talk to him about Morgana you both can-“

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is sharp and he can feel the ugliness in him seep outwards, turning down the edges of his mouth. ”Don’t mention her name.”

“I just thought –“

“That’s your problem, Merlin. You _don’t_ think.” It cruel and out of his mouth before he can stop it. Merlin looks hurt and vulnerable with Arthur’s limp socks covering his lap and the thick darning-needle in his hands.

They sit in unhappy silence but Arthur can’t quite get his tongue around an apology. Finally Merlin is done with his task; he stands, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair and tosses his head, like he’s trying to flip hair out of his eyes. The gesture is small and pointless as his hair’s too short to be bothersome, but it takes Arthur’s breath away. The unconscious gesture is familiar, it’s taken straight from Gwaine. Arthur feels ill.

“You’re not coping,” Merlin says into the silence. “You won’t talk to me, you won’t talk to your father, you wont’ talk to Gwen – so find _someone_. Stop trying to do this alone.” Merlin leaves, door closing a little too heavily.

 

 

 

Uther looks pale, curled up like a child in the bed sheets. His face is lined with pillow creases and his cheeks appear sticky, like maybe he’d cried himself to sleep. Arthur feels like he’s intruding and isn’t allowed to share in his father's grief, like his own heartache has been weighed, measured and found wanting besides Uther’s.

He shouldn’t have listened to Merlin. What did he know, anyway?

Arthur turns away, slipping out of Uther’s dark chamber. He stands in the corridor and stares at the candle in his hands for a long while, feeling the warmth of the flame on his face.

He blows it out.

 

 

 

“You’re such a fool,”

“Excuse me?”

Gwaine is standing behind him, swarthy and handsome and annoyed. He moves closer, face full of pity and knowing.

Arthur can’t help it when he pulls back and punches Gwaine in the face. Leon bounds forward, sticking his shoulders between them, but there’s no need. Gwaine isn’t fighting back – maybe he needs to be soaked in mead for several moons before he can be bothered to raise a fist.

“Feel better?” he asks Arthur and walks away. 

Leon turns a confused and tense look towards him. Arthur shakes his head. He watches Gwaine across the courtyard, his head held high. Arthur spits onto the cobblestones.

 

 

 

He’s frantic, pressing himself against Gwen. He needs to forget for a while, and the feel of warm skin and kisses and hands holding him will do just as good as his father’s strongest wine.

But Gwen is murmuring against his ear, his neck, his heart: _what’s wrong? What’s wrong? Tell me, Arthur. Tell me. Tell me.  
_  
He doesn’t mean to say it but Merlin’s names slips from between his lips. Gwen stills against him and she seems confused, or so he thinks. But then she sighs, sad and understanding. Gwen moves from his arms and Arthur feels cold, lost.

“Talk to him.”

 

 

 

“What did you mean, when you said I was a fool,” Arthur asks, voice gruff. “I mean, I know I am, but why did _you_ have to say it?”

Gwaine looks up from where he’s laying in the flattened grass, on a hill overlooking Camelot. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see Arthur glowering down at him. Gwaine just pats the ground beside him and tells Arthur to pull of a patch of ground. So he does, stiffly at first, uncomfortable and awkward. Gwaine, of course, is easy, limbs relaxed, eyes half-closed. Arthur waits – he’ll get an answer eventually and he’ll not ask again.

“You’re a fool,” Gwain says, “because you don’t know it.”

“What? Didn’t I just say I –“

“You think you know, but you don’t.” This is all more frustrating and tautological than Arthur can bear and he’s about to get up and storm off like he’s five again, but Gwaine’s hand is holding him firmly by the arm. Arthur looks down, glaring.

“I’m Merlin’s man, through and through,” Gwaine says, reiterating the words that have burned through Arthur in the last weeks, that have set a fire in him that made him hot and restless and unhappy. “But,” Gwaine continues, slowly, “I am also yours – because of Merlin.”

Arthur tries to extract his arm, but the fingers won’t budge, keeping a tight hold. “I don’t understand.”

“Merlin’s _your_ man, _your_ right-hand. He follows you, no one else, and I follow him. I’m happy that he's lead me to you.”

Arthur still doesn’t get it, so he tries to smile and says, “You’re not a very good knight, telling your liege something like that.”

Gwaine looks exasperated, more so than Arthur’s ever seen him look before. Angry too. He’s sitting up and getting right in Arthur’s face. So close Arthur can smell him; Gwaine’s breath smells of grass, like he’s been chewing at it all afternoon.

“He. Is. Yours.” Gwaine says each word, slowly and gives each its own significance. He shakes his head, flips the hair out of his eyes. “Talk to him.”

 

 

 

Merlin is sitting in Arthur’s chambers, dozing in front of the fire, head lolling, and Arthur can’t help the laugh that escapes him. The noise startles Merlin awake and he looks surprised then sheepish, rubbing a hand down his arm several times, apologising. Arthur shrugs, letting it slide.

They move into their normal routine for the evenings, but with less chatter than normal from both ends. Merlin helps him out of his boots, finds him a nightshirt, lights a bedside candle. Arthur’s distracted. He can’t stop hearing both Gwen and Gwaine telling him to speak with his manservant – no, his _friend_. He can’t help but remember Lancelot’s words, telling him that one day he’ll be proud to have Merlin at his side. __

_One day._ But, Merlin is at his side _now_ and he doesn’t ever want him _not_ to be.

“I am proud,” Arthur blurts. He blushes at the confusion on Merlin’s face, head turned to look at him from where he stands at the cupboard. “Of you. Um. I mean, I am proud to have you here, by my side. I know you have faith in me and that means… it means a lot. I just wanted you know, just in case I’ve never showed you.”

“I…” Merlin, for once in his life, must be lost for words. His mouth is moving, open and shut, but no sound is forthcoming. But at last he straightens a little and says, “thank you. For saying so.”

There’s no more talking as the bedtime ritual continues and Arthur feels glad that he’s told Merlin but also, disappointed and numb, like he’d expected something more.

Merlin is fussing at Arthur’s bed sheets, tucking him in, fingers smoothing the blankets. For the first time since he found out about Morgana, Arthur wants to weep.

“You told me recently, that I should talk to someone,” Arthur begins, unsteady on this unfamiliar terrain. Merlin’s fingers have stilled. “Morgana. Morgana was…” he shakes himself; starts again. “Father lied. To me. He…” And to Arthur’s horror he _is_ weeping, hot, angry tears. Merlin scrambles at the sheets, frantic for something but Arthur’s too far gone to take it in completely, not until Merlin is slipping beneath the covers with him.

A long, bony body moves in close. Merlin hesitates, then reaches out, arms stretching around Arthur, holding him against his chest. It’s such a human gesture, familiar without being familiar, that Arthur clutches at the cloth of Merlin’s shirt, clinging to his lifeline. Because Merlin _is_ his lifeline and always has been, standing within arms reach ready to pull him from danger. Arthur just never reached for him until now.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Merlin’s saying over and over. Arthur thinks he feels a ghost of a kiss at the top of his head and hides his face further in Merlin’s chest.

Soon the sound of both Merlin and Arthur quiet down and even out into just their easy breathing, both exhausted. Arthur feels sleep pull at him and he goes willingly, warm, as though by a fire, in the arms of his best friend.


End file.
